Angel Whispers
by Yuna Cifer
Summary: AU Watchers come in pairs, Lestrade (Heaven's Observer) and Jim (Hell's Observer) are two such angels. Their only job is to silently watch and record the thoughts and deeds (or misdeeds) of each charge. But when they are assigned Sherlock Holmes things go array, and they have to escape the judgement of the Host or face death.
1. Heaven's Most Observant Part I

**A whole new idea and also that long awaited Lestrade au fic. I've been wanting to do an angelfic for Lestrade for a long time. So enjoy.**

**Disclaimer: Do not own *plays worlds smallest violin***

**Update: fixed some errors and wording, that's all.**

* * *

He inhales the hot ash breathing it in, tasting the bitter tobacco as it burned its way down his esophagus all the way to his lungs. Lestrade held the pure smoke in his mouth as he watched the sleepy Londoners pass by; he waited until the small high of the tobacco hit and then exhaled. Cigarettes never did much for him but it was the best emotional dampener he could get, drugs he tried (awful idea, had him bouncing off the walls), alcohol did absolutely nothing which was sort of a relief considering the effect it had on…the others. He preferred to observe, in fact that was all he did.

Lestrade was a Watcher (or Follower, if you were one for specifics) and London was his domain, well mostly. A lot of Watchers occupied London doing what they've done since Creation, watch humanity and Record it. Their official title was the Noble (Honorable) Recorders, well according to the humans.

Each Watcher is assigned a charge to judge. Lestrade had observed countless charges in his many centuries as a Heavenly Observer, all of them beautiful and human. Some were delicate and shattered, so very very human, hanging on to their Heavenly Record, but Lestrade at the intervening moment could find no page within the human's soul to stop the inevitable. His angelic brother, Hell's Observer, would take over and read the man's misdeeds to him, writing them into his soul for the Host to bear witness to before opening the Gates of Hell and letting the damned drag him to hell.

Lestrade shivered at the memory, he'd seen only a handful of Damnations and was not looking forward to another. Lestrade stood from his high perch, letting his cigarette fall from his lips he watched it as it plopped between a sandy haired teenage boys sneakered feet. He smirked when the kid blinked at the litter and picked it up, swiftly discarding it. Lestrade grinned suddenly feeling lifted by seeing the young person's goodness, perhaps Damnation wouldn't be in his next charges future.

Lestrade pushed his hands in his pockets as he walked off the edge of the building seamlessly appearing in the throngs of busy Londoners on the sidewalk. He paused though as he felt his fingertips warm, against his personal ledger. The names of past charges and now his present charge inscribed within it. Lestrade froze immobile in the busy city, the crowd of Londoners seemingly avoiding him on instinct.

The centuries old Watcher pulled out the old worn leather book and flipped to the last blank page, on it inscribed across the page written in the Host's beautiful scrawl was the name:

_William Sherlock Scot Holmes_

The Watcher turned the unusual name around in his head; it was very…19th century. Strange. But Lestrade new better than to judge a book by its cover.

The Angelic Observer laid his hand over the name, feeling the name, the Host since the time of Creation put a part of the charge's soul into the inscribed name in order to lead the Watcher to his or her Charge. Lestrade felt warmth and then a tug; he let his eyes slid shut, and then vanished, the gap in the morning traffic closed.

* * *

Holmes's soul fragment had brought him to a derelict playground, he could see the equipment visibly rusted and weak from where he stood and worry immediately began to form within his gut. He searched the mostly abandoned playground and so far hadn't caught sight of his charge.

Most charges were at least in their teens. The Host deemed humans wholly responsible and accountable for their actions once they reached the ages of 13 to 15 depending on when they become of age.

Lestrade thought it utter hogwash at that age humans were the most destructive and irresponsible but for some damned misguided reason the Host thought that was when humans were the most responsible. The Watcher took a few steps into the damned playground, it was possible that he missed his target by a few minutes or hours but Holmes would show eventually. His soul fragment had leaded him here. So that meant that this was a highly frequented place for the young Holmes. Or that it will be.

Time was fluid for angels. What was happening now was happening everywhere, past, present, and future.

Lestrade passed the swings, monkey bars, slides, all of them rusted, paint peeling, as the angel passed each his hand glided over them feeling the weathered texture.

_Why would a teenager want to visit a place like this?_

Teenagers did a lot stranger things, some of them for 'love', some for family, crazy hormones or just crazy teenage things. Lestrade had seen some inventive teenage rebellion in his time; he just didn't know why the playground was so special. Or why it would be?

Realizing that Holmes may not be arriving for days or maybe weeks and that the sun was also swiftly disappearing, Lestrade decided to call it a night. He didn't necessarily have to sleep but with nothing to do he figured a few hours of deep meditation would be time better spent then staring at rusted swings.

Lestrade sat on the first chair-like thing he could find. He shifted around on the edge of the plastic slide readying for meditation, taking deep breaths, in and out, clearing his mind. Slowly he lowered himself down laying down on the slide, his eyes drifted closed, shutting out the twinkling stars.

* * *

Lestrade's eyes fluttered open as he slowly became aware of his surroundings again. To his left he could hear one of the rusted swings creaking angrily as it was undoubtedly being forced to do a job it was no longer suited for. His sight came to him then, clearing and he registered a pair of coal black eyes staring down at him, looking at him.

The pair of eyes looked away as soon as they registered his surprise and Lestrade felt the slide creak beneath him, the owner of the coal black eyes obviously moving. Lestrade sat up turning around wondering what manner of human was able to see him, but as he twisted around the mystery instantly solved itself.

He could see the owner of the eyes perched precariously on the edge of the slide watching the swings, his profile only visible to Lestrade. That was enough though, as Lestrade could still see the wings, a deep burnished brown, nearly red with the sun hitting them and Lestrade imagined they must be black as night without the sun heating them.

One wing twitched, Lestrade looked away embarrassed, now keenly aware of his wings which were probably bent and ruffled from his kip on the slide.

"He's kind of boring."

"Hmmm…"Lestrade intoned, he hadn't quite heard the other angel.

"Boring. The new charge, he's going to be one of yours," said the man, practically pouting.

"Well, were only scribes, were not meant to be rooting for any sides, don't be to put out, mate." Answered Lestrade chuckling, the angel must have been fairly new and impatient, probably hadn't even performed his first Damning.

"Mate?" questioned the angel his eyes narrowing as he stared down Lestrade, coal black eyes meeting light brown ones.

Lestrade swallowed, "Sorry uh…"

"Jim, just Jim," Jim supplied, expression still guarded.

"Right sorry 'bout that, didn't think."

"Apparently."

Lestrade nearly leaped at the insolent angel, insulting his superior. He was standing now, gaining higher ground on the younger angel, but it was a moot point as Hell's Observer – Jim was already perched atop the slide.

Jim jerked his head toward the creaking swing; Lestrade followed the motion and saw his charge, Sherlock Holmes. He sat on the rusted swing, head bowed, curly raven locks obscuring his face from view. Long legs stretched out in front of him, swinging him minutely as long bony fingers clutched rusted chains.

"Boring, isn't he," stated Jim as blandly as a wavelength of celestial intent was capable of.

"He's just a kid, barely lived." Lestrade defended, he didn't understand why the Dark Observer disliked the boy just because he wasn't…interesting.

Jim hopped down from his perch, barely making a sound as he landed. The Observer stretched his arms above his head and then touched his toes at the same time extending his wings and flapping them. A standard exercise they had all been taught in order to not lock up midflight. Jim finished his stretch and gave Lestrade a cursory glance with a lifted brow.

"You know your wings are a mess, right?"

Already irritated by the angel's behavior Lestrade merely responded by aggressively flapping his wings, simultaneously showing the younger who was in charge and fixing his wings at the same time.

* * *

It was five weeks later; they followed Holmes to his house. It was modest, had everything the boy needed, his parents were loving and attentive, his older brother was a bit of a twit, but you can't always choose your family, right.

Lestrade watched Sherlock as he read the local newspaper, his nose scrunched up looking rather irritated with the paper. The boy left quickly and came back with two more papers, both from different publishers. Now Lestrade was interested, he moved in closer watching over the boys shoulder.

Then with a highlighter and pen Sherlock began underlining and circling random words, at least they looked random. Lestrade already knew how brilliant Sherlock was and how he could see thing others couldn't. Sherlock saw things, put things together that he, a thousands year old angel couldn't dream of.

Sherlock nearly had all of the news articles circled and underlined in short time, some where even connected by lines of ink in alternating colors, Lestrade wondered what the younger was seeing through all of the ink.

Suddenly Sherlock sprang to his feet grinning excitedly; he clapped his hands together and loudly exclaimed, "Shoes, the shoes!"

Lestrade blinked. _Shoes? _

Sherlock was definitely interesting.

Lestrade studied the scattered articles Sherlock had been investigating and decided two things very quickly. One Sherlock was very interested in the death of Carl Powers, and two, he was most likely about to tell the police about his…shoe discovery.

And three, he just decided, he had to stop Sherlock.

Also it was going to be the dumbest thing he'd ever do.

* * *

Lestrade caught Sherlock outside of Scotland Yard trying to stop the Detective Inspector and get him to listen. It wasn't very effective, and he just hoped the Inspector kept walking. Sherlock suddenly shouted something though, his face red and frustrated. The Inspector turned looking very irked, the DI waved airily at Sherlock to go on.

Damn. Sherlock couldn't tell that Inspector his theory, he didn't know why he just couldn't let him do it. His skin itched as he looked for a way to stop what was happening. Then he saw it. A distracted Sergeant clutching a coffee with his coat wrapped around his arm.

Lestrade worked quick directing the Sergeant toward the fast talking teenager. Suggestion was simple and one of the many abilities all angels were capable of. Watchers hardly had reason to use the ability, but now he was finding one, a very illegal reason.

Watchers are by nature a Seventh Class angel and by default completely neutral, meaning not allowed to interfere into the affairs of their charges or any human. Now he was trying to stop his charge from helping a Detective Inspector, his only good reason he had for it was a bad feeling.

His instincts and habit screamed to not interfere, but the overwhelming feeling within him urged him to stop this before it happened.

The Sergeant took his spot directly in Sherlock's path and plowed forward, in his mindless rush to get home. Lestrade watched as the collision he planned took place, as the Sergeant slammed into Sherlock knocking him down, the coffee spilling over burning the man's hand. He watched as the Detective Inspector saw his chance and left down the street taking a cab.

And he watched as Sherlock fumed and yelled at the 'moronic' cop and insulted the entire Scotland Yard.

He felt awful for it, but new that what he had done was right, that he had somehow averted a disaster.

* * *

Lestrade took his usual perch atop the neighbor's roof, from here he could still see Sherlock's room and be high up at the same time.

The Watcher yanked his ledger out of his deep pockets and in a practiced motion laid his hand atop the ivory pages baring Sherlock Holmes; he closed his eyes recounting the brilliant boy's good deeds.

Sherlock was definitely a great man, and as Lestrade saw more and more of the boy couldn't wait for the day he became a good man, an angel watching his front and an angel watching his back.

Lestrade hadn't seen Jim in nearly two weeks, Hell's Observer's traditionally didn't stick around all day, only interested in the misdeeds of their charges.

"Smoke?" asked a smooth voice, Jim, speak of the – er, blessed.

Lestrade glanced Jim's way and noticed the cigarette held between his pointer and middle fingers. The Watcher took it without complaint, ready for a smoke after the long day, also the bit of unsolicited Suggestion took a bit out of him.

"I'm surprised you're not dead to be honest. I would've thought the brass would've plucked you at least." Jim had his own cigarette out now and was exhaling dramatic clouds of smoke into the dark atmosphere, with a swirl of his fingertips he made the clouds into wings and then clicked his fingers, the wings blew up.

Jim grinned at Lestrade; Lestrade could only grimace in return.

"I brought the smokes for you, you know, just in case."

"Just in case I wasn't dead you mean."

"Yeah like that."

Lestrade shrugged, letting the younger angel know it didn't bother him. But now he was starting to wonder what his punishment would be.

"How do you know anyway, about earlier?" asked Lestrade, the cigarette was starting to burn his fingertips now, he flicked the cigarette restoring it to full length, Lestrade continued smoking.

"Word gets around, and it's sort of my duty to notice low level Suggestions being made around my charge." Jim shrugged around the words, as he made more smoky cloud art.

"The Carl Powers thing though, it felt off, like..." Lestrade trailed off, unsure.

"Like it shouldn't exist," Jim supplied watching Lestrade from the corner of his eyes.

"How, what do you mean? "

"Hmmmm, I did it," Jim responded, the cloud art abandoned now his cigarette crunched beneath his foot. "Set it up, Carl Powers, wanted to see what he'd do."

"You what?! You killed Carl Powers, fuck Jim, you can't do that. No one's allowed to do that, no interfering –"

"No interfering with human affairs, I know that Lestrade, "snapped Jim, he'd heard Angelic Rule since the day he came into existence, it was practically burned into his retinas.

"Then explain." Lestrade was seething, not only had he stepped out of line, but Jim had killed a human and in doing so created an Unstable Event. If the brass ever caught wind, they would both be dead.

"I wanted to know what he'd do, if he'd figure it out. It was the shoes you know." Jim grinned proud, glad that his little experiment worked, that his charge had gotten his puzzle worked out. "Only half of the problem, but I couldn't stand it you know, watching our brilliant Sherlock waste his mind with his moronic brother, I had to do something."

"How thoughtful of you, now what about the shitstorm that's going to land on us when the brass learns about this?" said Lestrade his cigarette abandoned now, dropped to the roof tiles.

"Got it covered."

Lestrade skeptically raised his brow at the angel.

"Undercover, we'll go corporeal, human identities and all. Staying close to Sherlock Holmes of course, an angel mustn't abandon his duty."

"Well at least were not abandoning our charge, I hate to leave a job unfinished."

"Exactly Lestrade." Said Jim smirking as he walked to the edge of the roof. "Well see you on the other side, right."

Lestrade nodded and Jim pushed off the edge of the roof disappearing.


	2. Heaven's Most Observant Part II

**Enjoy. Do not own, yada yada.**

* * *

Lestrade's job doesn't change much after becoming corporeal; he still keeps a wary eye on Sherlock but from a closer distance and with a lot more insults to his intelligence, from the now much older Holmes.

Lestrade slipped into the role of Detective Inspector along the time Sherlock started drugs. He quickly learned that Detective Inspector would give him just enough authority to take care of Sherlock and his drug habit. He was interfering in human affairs again, but at this point seeing Sherlock broken and wasting away in the streets, it was all he could do not to work a Miracle and set the teen straight.

After that everything was a whirlwind he was vetted by Sherlock's over dramatic brother and forever tied to his alias as Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade. There was no going back, the brass a mere afterthought.

Jim had stayed in the background for the majority of those years, still convinced that Sherlock would be on the side of the angels. They of course met occasionally and discussed their charge, but mostly planned how much longer they would have to dodge the brass. They never got far though their shared inevitable demise, lead them to other things. At the end of the day, cigarettes lay loose between fingertips along with a glass of whiskey.

He hadn't thought about the brass for two years. When Sherlock, his own damn charge disappeared, everyone else, even John still thought he was dead. Lestrade knew better, he'd have felt it.

When he got the call he stayed just long enough to see Sherlock's 'body' and go through the motions and as soon as he could handed it all over to Donovan. She grumbled and shouted at him as he sprinted out of Scotland Yard. As soon as his feet hit the pavement outside he disappeared.

He took his chances by going incorporeal and searched the roof for Jim, he knew Jim was Moriarty, the young angel bragged every time Sherlock figured out one of his puzzles. The consulting detective had no idea how many of his cases were actually the angels doing.

In fact the consulting detective had no idea what he was dealing with. But Sherlock was right about Jim being more than a man. Then again so was he.

Lestrade hunted down the detective and found him in France of all places; he seemed agitated as he scanned a cluttered wall full of photos. No doubt those of Jim's network, how had he let this get so out of hand?

Lestrade watched Sherlock as he tracked down Moriarty's web, and systematically disabled it. Sherlock never raised a gun or utilized violence. Just careful manipulation of the delicate fibers within Jim Moriarty's web. Lestrade winced every time a new tendril of the web fell and Sherlock came closer to the truth, that James Moriarty didn't exist, that there was no spider.

As Sherlock approached Moriarty's stronghold or at least what the detective thought was the last defense of the consulting criminal, Lestrade held himself back, the urge to send the detective straight back to London overwhelming.

He watched though standing stock still across the dusty room as Sherlock searched the area. The detective's gray eyes darted everywhere picking everything out until finally landing on an abandoned laptop. A layer of dust covered it, Sherlock wiped it off snapping open the device, immediately a cheerful melody started emitting from the laptop.

Lestrade's heart fell as he saw whose face was displayed on the device, Jim. Lestrade's fists disappeared into his pockets as Sherlock stumbled backwards. Jim's voice echoing throughout the room declaring his immortality. Sweetly asking if his charge missed him in his absence. Lestrade stood still as Sherlock fled the room no doubt already thinking of how to return to London.

And Lestrade knew that he couldn't let Sherlock face Jim Moriarty again.

Lestrade leaned impossibly far over the edge of St. Bart's roof, his heels barely gripping the surface of the structure, yet he still managed not to fall. He'd been waiting in this position for almost two months or was it nine months, he wasn't certain. He was aware though that the NSY was looking into his disappearance, the many posters and notices stapled and pasted across London were glaring. He couldn't be bothered though, Jim still hadn't shown himself and now they were both distancing themselves from Sherlock, their false identities compromised.

Things were coming to a head. It was now or never. Submit or die. Lestrade fought down a self deprecating laugh, what was he french.

Lestrade felt the air shift, and heard the soft heavy sound of wings cutting the air. Lestrade lifted himself properly onto the roof already knowing who to expect. Lestrade's heart dropped down to his feet, his wings clenching to his back.

Cassiel, the Seventh Archangel, in charge of all Class Seven angels. Lestrade swallowed deeply, he backed up, the edges of his heels hanging off. He wouldn't die if he fell but it would hurt.

Cassiel stalked closer his heavenly visage barely contained by the vessel he was currently wearing, it gave off the appearance of a man towering over his prey. Grace poured from his eyes and pinned Lestrade down.

Lestrade had no weapon to protect himself, Class Seven angels have no need for flaming swords. Which is exactly what Cassiel had just so he could smite Lestrade himself. The sword was enormous, a close human equivalent would be the Irish Claymore and even that didn't compare. Pure white flames flicked off the blade, Lestrade is cornered.

And then he hears a voice shout, and everything falls apart. The blade swings, flames roaring and singing as they strike a man and his body sails over the building, Lestrade sees dark hair.

He has no time to wonder who it is though as the blade comes after him and he barely has time to dodge it. Floating down on the opposite side of the roof. Cassiel's eyes burn golden, he hasn't said anything. Heaven's justice falls silent, but swiftly. Lestrade dodges again but barely, the flaming blade cuts his skin and the wound burns, his Grace escaping.

Faintly Lestrade can hear police and ambulance sirens, the world goes on. It strikes Lestrade that of course humans wouldn't be sending an ambulance for the angel that just fell from the roof, he wasn't of the human realm. Heaven would conduct its business, he would die and London would move on. What was he thinking, trying to blend in with humans.

He was torn between with just wanting to get it over with and die, it was his fault, he made the decision to interfere he should take the punishment and die, and say fuck-all and fight back he's been hiding this long, if he did want to die he would have gone running back to Heaven a long time ago.

Cassiel swung down again this time catching Lestrade's coat slicing it open, as he jumped out of the way. Suddenly the Archangel is lunging forward, the flaming sword's reach suddenly extended. Lestrade doesn't retreat far enough, now he's spitting up blood, choking on it.

The sword twists in Lestrade's stomach burning his intestines, setting his Grace aflame. Cassiel slowly pulls the flaming blade out of Lestrade's stomach. Lestrade falls to his knees, Cassiel circles the fallen angel and kicks him down. Cassiel makes sure that Lestrade stays down and he plants his foot down between his shoulder blades, between his wings.

Cassiel sheaths the flaming blade, taking hold of Lestrade's large wings and yanks them, an electric pulse vibrates through them and Lestrade cries out. His body clenches up, hands digging into the gravel atop the roof, cracks fissure through the building. Lestrade didn't know, he didn't think he would be de-winged, he thought he would be smited, smiting is quick and final. De-winging is, is taboo. Only performed on the worst criminals.

Another pull and Cassiel applies more pressure with his foot, pain shoots everywhere. His wings scream, his mind screams, blood pools atop the gravel and he doesn't know where from. Electricity and foreign Grace pulse painfully through Lestrade's wings and body, literally killing them. His own wings now rejecting him like a faulty organ.

Cassiel ruthlessly pulls his wings from his back, muscle, sinew, and skin, start popping away, the sound grotesque, Lestrade now knows where the blood is emanating from. The pain only crescendos as Cassiel ups the torture, Lestrade grabs onto what he can, more cracks fissure across the building as Lestrade digs his fingers into the roof.

Everything starts to blur and dark spots pop into the angels vision and just out of the corner of his fading eyesight he sees two pairs of shoes. They seem familiar but he can't remember why, Lestrade vaguely remembers that the really expensive shoes should not be here.

Cassiel pauses, the pain abated. Lestrade can feel Cassiel's footsteps vibrating as he walks, in that stalking manner, in the direction of the expensive shoes. Lestrade's stomach turns and he doesn't know why, why are the nice expensive shoes so important. He faintly hears Cassiel chuckle, the first emotion he's shown since the beginning of this. Cassiel is taunting Lestrade.

Because he doesn't know who the man in the expensive shoes is. Lestrade racks his brain, dammit, who does he know that's pretentious enough to wear - Oh. Fuck.

Sherlock.

He doesn't know how, but somehow Lestrade ends up blocking Cassiel's way, barely standing. Sherlock and John standing behind him they look like they're waiting for something, Moriarty perhaps. Too late. Lestrade thinks, as he recalls the dark hair falling from the building.

Lestrade is too weakened to do anything his wings are destroyed along with his Grace, he will die. Cassiel knows this and with barely a thought swipes him out of the way. Lestrade lands several feet away, body ripped and torn, almost every bone in his body broken. He can't let Cassiel destroy his charge, and he can't let Sherlock die this way, without knowing why.

Cassiel's flaming sword swings on his belt and he knows what to do. Lestrade heaves himself up, graceless and dyeing and races to stop Cassiel from destroying the unknowing detective and blogger. He reaches Cassiel just as the blade is unsheathed, Lestrade grabs it, Cassiel gasps and tries to swing the blade but Lestrade counters, twisting the Archangels wrist sending the blade down to his own chest. Cassiel's eyes widen, Lestrade grins at the horrified expression and brings the blade down, impaling them both.

Grace bursts from the angel and Archangel like a reverse lightning strike. The building shakes, and is blanketed in blinding white energy. Sherlock and John stumble covering their eyes, unaware of the event but conscious to the effects. When they can finally see again, burn marks in the shape of massive wings are etched into the rooftop.

Sherlock tirelessly investigates the scene, absolutely convinced that what happened that day was somehow connected to Moriarty and Lestrade's disappearance. John can only agree, if only to placate the detective. He thinks that whatever happened on the roof, the burn marks on the roof, the burst of light, was possibly something bigger. He can only hope Sherlock doesn't get too close. Somethings are meant to be left unknown.


End file.
